K is for Kismet
by Dragon's Daughter 1980
Summary: Five years. Nine months. Fourteen hours. One miracle.


K is for Kismet

By Dragon's Daughter 1980

(Written for the 2006 Summer Alphabet Challenge)

Disclaimer: Other than being a devoted fan, I don't have anything to do with Numb3rs.

* * *

I have been through my share, and perhaps more, of dangerous, terrifying situations in my life. A stint in Afghanistan with the CID followed by four years with the FBI has adequately demonstrated to me my own mortality. I have seen friends bleeding, heard them screaming in pain or slump into my arms, silent and far beyond the aid of any mortal. I have seen innocent people, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, crumpled on the village streets, victims of something they never understood. I have looked into the eyes of terrified witnesses who are too scared to speak and traumatized children who have lost their childhood all too soon. I have stared down coldhearted bastards and twisted creeps who prey on innocents. I have knelt by the side of my colleagues and friends, trying to calm them while simultaneously calling for aid, all the while fervently praying that their injuries are not life-threatening. However, I can safely say that I have never been in the situation I am in now. 

Between cries of pain and shuddering gasps for breath, my wife of two years is currently threatening to kill me if I ever touch her again after today. My hand is clutched tightly in her white-knuckled grip and since she doesn't show any sign of wanting to let go, I can only guess that she's in the 'heat of the moment.' Her sky-blue eyes glare at me, blaming me and the 'heat of the moment' for the situation she is in now. I just smile at her, because I know that it is only the hormones and the pain that's making her irritable.

It has been an exhausting ten hours since she woke me in the middle of a night after a very, very long day, calmly informing me that her water broke. For a war veteran and trained agent to boot, I was far more panicked by her news than I thought I would be. I suppose that's the difference between knowing you're going to be a parent and actually being one within the next few hours.

The two of us hurried to the hospital, my attention split between her pained moans and the cars in front of me. I still think it's a minor miracle we didn't get into an accident of some sort. Maybe there is a patron saint for panicked fathers out there who makes sure that we don't get our pregnant wives in car crashes. All speculation of divine aid aside, we made it to the hospital safely. Once she was admitted, the waiting began.

At first, she was fairly serene about her labor. Besides a few expletives that I had never heard before during a particularly agonizing contraction, she managed to carry on a normal conversation with me. She even tried to tell me to go to work this morning, and failing that, she practically ordered me, when the hour seemed appropriate, to call Don and inform him that I would not be coming into the office today. (I may or may not have ungraciously woken his whole family up from a sound sleep to do so. While we were talking, I heard his wife making soothing noises in the background, trying to calm their whimpering young son.) Once he realized that I was calling from a hospital, he told me not to worry about the case, to concentrate on my wife. The rest of our families lived out of state, so I called and told them to get on the first plane they could before I returned to her side.

As the hours passed, and the contractions got stronger and closer together, my wife lost her tranquility until she was at this point, swearing that she would never let me touch her again.

The nurses around us give me knowing grins; they must have heard this before from countless wives, heaping abuse on hapless husbands who have contributed to the issue at hand, but really can do nothing to help at the moment, no matter how much they want to. Dr. Sun is quite calm and firm as she coaches my wife through the last minutes of her labor.

"One more push," she says encouraging, "You can do it."

With an accompanying shriek, my wife pushes one last time and then slumps limply into my arms. I can't push down the panic that suddenly rises in my chest and strangles my breathing. I sigh quietly in relief when I hear her whisper in my ear a moment later, "You'll pay for this, Colby."

I chuckle softly as our child's outraged wail echoes in the delivery room. I kiss my wife's sweaty forehead and tell her, "I don't mind."

She laughs weakly, a pale imitation of her usual peal of lighthearted laugher, but I know she's just tired. I brush a strand of hair away from her face and begin to blot the sweat from her forehead with a soft dry cloth. She closes her eyes, allowing me the rare moment to take care of her.

Dr. Sun walks over to us, cradling our baby in a pink receiving blanket. As if alerted by a mother's instinct, my wife immediately opens her eyes and struggles to sit up. She does, with my help, and the doctor carefully places our child in my wife's arms.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Granger," she says with a broad smile, "You have a beautiful, healthy daughter."

My wife half-sobs, holding our little girl close as I hug her shoulders. I look down at my precious bundle of love, her eyes squinting in the bright lights, but I can already tell that they are a warm brown. She waves her little fists around in mute protest before settling down in my wife's arms, still making soft fussing noises.

"Do you know what you're going to name her?" our doctor asks quietly.

"Karen," my wife says, not looking away from our baby. "Karen Irene Granger." I nod. We had agreed to name a daughter after our grandmothers, a son after our grandfathers. My wife sighs quietly, wearily, and Dr. Sun quickly says, "Would you like to hold your daughter while we get your wife cleaned up and settled back in her room?"

I nod and my wife carefully transfers Karen into my arms. She opens her eyes at the movement and the world fades around us when our eyes meet.

I had never planned to be a father. The Army, then the Bureau, felt like my life. I didn't want to leave a widow and kids behind if anything happened to me. Bad enough that my parents would grieve, that my brother would be lost, that my nephew and nieces would be hurt if I died; I didn't want to put a wife through the emotional wringer of losing a husband and innocent children having to grow up without a father.

Life conspired otherwise, however, and I found myself happily married to a very loving, supportive, stubborn woman less than two years after joining the Bureau. But even then, a child was not in the cards, so to speak.

I had never quite understood the way my brother had looked down at my nephew and nieces at each of their deliveries or the way Don had looked at his newborn son when he presented his child to the team: a mix of pride, love, elation, and a hint of fear. A few months ago, Don had told me that having a child changes everything. I just interpreted it to mean that he would leave work earlier every night and be more careful whenever we're out in the field. Nothing major, I thought, nothing like the world being remade around me simply because there is a new person in my life.

But I understand now. Karen is real and she is here. I am no longer just a son, a brother, an agent, a husband, but also a father — the oldest and most revered of all professions. I tremble slightly at the thought of the enormous responsibilities before me. She unquestioningly trusts me to take care of her, to hold her and never drop her. I will have to protect her, raise her, and when it is time, find the strength to let her fly. I am afraid that I will fail, but at the same time, I know all that I can do is my best and pray that is enough.

She eventually tires at staring at me and closes her eyes, nudging her face towards my chest, her little rosebud mouth opening and closing. Knowing what she wants, I chuckle quietly and tell her, "You're going to have to wait. I'm afraid I can't help you there." Fortunately, she doesn't erupt into unhappy wails and chooses instead to sleep until she can get fed.

A nurse carefully guides me out of the delivery room, mindful that my attention is not on where I'm going, but on the passenger in the warm cocoon of blankets in my arms. We move through the corridors, sidestepping patients and orderlies and other anxious fathers. A familiar voice teases me out of my enthralled trance and I look up to see the crowded waiting room, occupied with my friends and coworkers, coming eagerly forward to greet my new arrival.

"So Colby," says Megan with her brilliant smile, "who do you have there?" Don and David are right behind her to get a peek at my little girl. Others, like Charlie, Larry, Amita and even Mr. Eppes, stand back a little ways, but I can tell they're impatient to meet her. I smile with a father's pride and tell all of them, "This is my daughter, Karen."


End file.
